


take it easy on me

by a_good_soldier



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Fluff, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 02, Shower Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24567586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_good_soldier/pseuds/a_good_soldier
Summary: Bellamy finds Clarke jerking off in the shower. That's it that's the fic
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 6
Kudos: 267
Collections: Bellarke smut





	take it easy on me

**Author's Note:**

> [returns to AO3 after a six month hiatus, two months into a pandemic, about seven years late to a new fandom] hey want some cheesy porn
> 
> title from "Animal" by Neon Trees because i'm reverting back to adolescence. set vaguely in season 2 because the Ark has landed and they're there together, but seriously, plot is absolutely not of the essence here.

Normally, Bellamy wouldn’t worry after only a few hours away from Clarke—he’s not that much of a sucker, okay—but Monty’s been looking for Clarke for twenty minutes and she’s nowhere to be found. It’s not an emergency and the folks outside are certain she hasn’t left, so there’s no search party—hell, no one other than him and Monty and the folks at the gate even know they’re looking. But Bellamy’s still worried.

Her quarters are empty, and fortunately they look the same as usual—no evidence of last-minute packing or a thorough goodbye cleaning or being forced to abandon something halfway through. She isn’t in the mess hall or in the farm, and then he tries the wash area on a whim and sees her clothes on a bench.

_Jesus_ , he thinks, inordinately relieved. She’s just taking a shower.

She usually doesn’t take longer than three minutes, though, and the water isn’t on, so he steps into the wash area. “Clarke?” he asks, and Clarke gasps. He rushes towards the door. “Hey, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, sounding a little breathless. Is she crying? “Were you looking for me?”

“Yeah, Monty wanted— seriously, is everything okay?”

Clarke huffs out a breath. “Yeah. For real.”

“Because no offense, but you’re in a shower with no water and no one’s seen you in at least twenty minutes.”

There’s a pause, and Bellamy hears something against the wall, and then a step. Was she— was she leaning against the wall? He wishes he could see at least something, a shadow through a translucent curtain or something, but there’s only the metal doors they repurposed from the ship. Probably stupid to devote so many resources to the wash area and the sanitation area, but everyone is highly cognizant of how vulnerable they are at the best of times, let alone showering naked or taking a shit.

“I’m seriously fine, Bellamy,” she says eventually, and Bellamy leans his forehead against the door.

“You’re not. Clarke, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s _wrong_ , I’m just—”

“Just what?”

“Needed some privacy.” She laughs, suddenly. “Okay. Just— just gimme— I’ll be out in a second.”

“Monty can wait, it’s not urgent. If you need privacy, why not your room?” The concept of privacy was foreign to half the kids who came out of the Sky Box anyway, and any remaining sense of modesty fell by the wayside after only a few days of trying to survive on the ground. What the hell could Clarke possibly need to hide out in a shower for?

Clarke snorts. “My door doesn’t lock. Look, are you— do you need me right now? Should I get out of here?”

“Just tell me what’s going on, and I’ll tell Monty how long you’ll be.”

That makes Clarke snort even louder. Bellamy can feel a smile tugging at his own mouth in response. It’s good to hear her happy. “I’m— Bellamy. Jesus. I’m trying to jerk off.”

The smile drops from his face. Oh.

Oh _fuck_.

He clears his throat, face rushing with blood even though at least two thirds of the people outside of this room have seen him walk out of a room half-naked with the smell of sex still on him. But Clarke, in there— fuck— “Sorry,” he says, “I’ll— uh, how long, or, uh— should I—”

“It’s fine, I’m done,” Clarke replies. He hears a towel sliding off its hook. Her next laugh is a little unhinged. “I’m— I haven’t— _months_ , it’s been, and I just, I was so—” There’s a catch in her breath. “So _close_ , God this is so stupid—”

“Princess,” he says, intending it to come out like a joke but instead it comes out low, desperate, like the animal he sometimes thinks he is. God. He hears a small noise from Clarke--is she laughing at him?--and pulls it back. _Months_. “You— it’s not stupid, that’s—” 

Suddenly he hears a muffled sound—not that it started suddenly, but rather, the sound suddenly comes into focus for him, a background noise he realizes is closer than he thinks. Rhythmic. He chokes out, “Clarke, are you—?” 

“I’m sorry,” she gasps, and the sound stops. “I just. Bell. I’m so—” Her breaths are uneven, loud, and Bellamy cannot believe what he’s about to say.

Quietly, he asks, “Let me help?”

It only takes one of her quick breaths for her to decide. “Come in,” she says, and he pushes open the door, locking it behind him.

Fuck. She’s beautiful, she always is, but right now, she’s— her hair is wild, sweaty, her face is red, her chest is heaving. She’s got a towel around her and Bellamy can—oh God—he can see a wet spot where she must have been touching herself, a last-ditch attempt at getting herself off. Her toes curl as he looks down.

“Clarke,” he whispers, and Clarke slides the towel onto the bench next to her.

She bites her lip. “Is this— are you—”

“You are so beautiful,” he says, like it’s a sacred fact, brought up from the holy earth, written in the trees. Her nipples are hard. Her belly is perfect, soft, her thighs are unbelievable, he wants to— he wants to _touch_ — “Tell me,” he begs, “what do you want—”

“Come here,” she says, already moving her left hand to her breast, the other to her cunt, stepping back to lean against the wall. “Bellamy— oh, fuck—”

He crowds her in, wants to see nothing but her skin, her eyes, presses his forehead against hers and breathes her air. He brings his hands up and then realizes she never told him what to do with them. “What do you want,” he murmurs, “how do I get you off?”

“Anything,” Clarke says, and Bellamy puts his hands on her waist, and she shivers, her right fingers working her clit already. “Oh— Bell— kiss me, c’mon—”

He puts his mouth on hers, eyes slipping closed inadvertently even though he wants all of it, wants to see it all, remember it in case it’s the last chance he gets. There’s his palms on her skin and their lips against each other and that’s everything, her teeth against his lip sending sparks up the back of his neck. “Fuck,” he whispers into her mouth, squeezing her tighter. She chokes out a moan and he groans into her neck. “ _Fuck_ , Clarke, fuck, tell me, tell me what else—”

“Put your fingers in me,” she says, and he does, slides two fingers into her. Easy, with how wet she is, and he shudders, pulling back an inch to watch his fingers push into her, her own nimble fingertips brushing against his palm. “That’s good,” she breathes, her voice tightening into a whine, her teeth sinking into her lip.

He watches her face as her eyelashes flutter. “You want me to fuck you with my fingers?” he asks, keeping his voice low, not sure if he’s aiming for dirty talk or a frank discussion of the mechanics of her orgasm. Regardless, she tightens around him and he pushes into her further, presses up against her inner walls. “What works for you, huh? In and out? Fast? Slow? Just pressure?”

“F—fuck me,” Clarke says, eyes closing and then slitting open like she can’t control them. Good God. “Slow, at first, and then faster. I’ll tell you when. Oh God, it’s good, you’re so good, your fingers are so _big_ —”

“Uh huh,” Bellamy says, like an idiot, because there is nothing in his brain except Clarke, Clarke’s red mouth and her blue eyes and the sweat beading on her skin. Her left hand circles around her nipple and he moves his hand up from her waist to her other breast, kneads it and pinches the nipple. She grunts, clearly accidental from the way she flushes bright red afterwards, and Bellamy groans. “You’re so hot. God. C’mon, you can—”

He looks down to watch her rub her clit, looks up to see her head thrown back against the wall. “Yeah,” he says, hardly aware of what’s coming out of his mouth, “c’mon, you can do it, just fuck yourself on my fingers the way you want— don’t let me stop you, okay, just use me, tell me what you want, _God_ that’s so good—”

“Faster,” Clarke breathes, and Bellamy speeds up his thrusts. “Oh God, yeah, yeah, _yeah_ , Bell— f— fu—ck—”

She opens her eyes and he takes his left hand off her chest, just for a second, to suck his fingers into his mouth, get them wet, while she watches. She sighs and her brows come together like he’s— like he’s _beautiful_ — and that— he swallows, and puts his wet thumb on her nipple, and she whimpers, eyes slipping closed again.

She’s tight, now, tighter around him, and he fucks her faster, sweat dripping down his back, Jesus he’s so hard and he hasn’t taken any of his clothes off. “I’m close,” she whines softly, voice breaking, and Bellamy pinches her nipple, leans in close to bite gently at her collarbone. “Oh, f—” she tries, breath hitching. “Fuck, fuck—”

“So good,” Bellamy whispers into her throat, her ear, mouthing the skin under her jaw, “you’re so good, you look so good, come on my fingers, I want you to, I want you to come—” His face is red, his thighs are trembling, he’s so goddamn hard in his pants he might come before Clarke does, “—please,” he breathes into her ear, “let me make you come, oh God, Clarke, I’m so fucking hard for you— you make me so hot—”

“I’m so close,” Clarke gasps, “oh God, keep _talking_ , keep fucking me—”

“Anything you want,” Bellamy says, kissing a feverish, winding path to her mouth, taking his time, biting the skin along her jawline, her neck, pressing closed-mouth kisses against her cheek, “anything, anytime, I’ll get on my knees for you next time, I want you to let me make you feel good, please, Clarke, please, please come for me—” and he kisses her, she said to keep talking but he couldn’t resist, just one kiss, and that’s when she cries out into his mouth, clenching suddenly around him.

“Yeah,” he pulls back to say, fucking her through her orgasm, watching her legs start to shake, her thighs tensing, sweat dripping between her breasts. “That’s so gorgeous, look at you—”

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Clarke hisses, and Bellamy has to catch her before her knees give out entirely. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —”

“Let it happen,” Bellamy soothes, pressing her into the wall for support and gentling his fingers until he’s just pressing in, settling his palm against her clit gently when she takes her own fingers away. She heaves out a breath and he shifts his right hand questioningly, the one with his fingers still inside her, and she shakes her head, pushes his wrist gently.

Slowly, he pulls his fingers out of her and his other hand off her chest. “Can I—?” he prompts, and Clarke looks up in confusion. He brings his hand to his mouth, he’s so greedy, just a taste— Clarke’s mouth falls open as he licks his palm, and she nods in encouragement, watching silently as Bellamy sucks his fingers into his mouth, cleaning his hand, tasting her.

“Jesus, Bell,” Clarke breathes, and Bellamy shudders.

“I— I need—” He closes his eyes. “Can I— I’m so, I’m so hard, is— is it okay, can I—”

“Bell, yes, of course,” Clarke says, and he opens his eyes. She grins. “But if you can wait two minutes, you could come inside me instead.”

His cock jerks in his underwear and he bites his lip. Through the haze of arousal, he has the sense to ask, “Is that gonna be my only chance?” 

Clarke’s grin fades, but it transforms into a small, real smile. “No,” she says. “If you don’t want it to be, then no. It’s not your only chance.”

Bellamy huffs, and bends forward to rest his forehead on Clarke’s shoulder. “Good,” he groans, unbuckling his pants and shoving his hand in unceremoniously, “because I think I’m gonna come in like two seconds.”

“Need any help?” Clarke asks, but she still seems a little shaky on her feet, and besides… two seconds.

“Nah,” Bellamy gasps, closing his eyes, aiming for something quick and dirty, one hand on his balls and the other stroking his dick. He can already feel sparks, and he says, “actually, can you— will you— _fuck_ —”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, and starts to stroke his hair. He presses his mouth into the skin of her chest. “Hey. Can I do what?”

He forces his head back to look her in the face. “Can you pull my hair? And also kiss me?”

Clarke grins. “Hell yeah to both,” she says, and her fingers tighten, and she puts her mouth on his, and it’s such a stream of sensation—her nails blunt but present against his scalp, the prickling sensation of his hair pulled taut in her hands, her mouth on his sensitive lips—that he comes instantly, spilling all over her abdomen and thighs and his pants, moaning loudly into her mouth.

“Shit,” he says when he pulls back for breath, his dick still jerking in his hands. “Oh shit. Shit. _Shit_.”

“No kidding,” Clarke says, sounding a little out of breath herself. “God. Look at you.”

Bellamy looks up at her. “Like what you see?”

“You know I do.” Clarke trails her fingers through his hair gently and he shivers. “Holy shit, Bellamy,” she says seriously, soberly, enunciating each word, and Bellamy nods. Yeah. Holy shit indeed.


End file.
